


Swap

by Calais_Reno



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Burglary, Crimes & Criminals, Don't copy to another site, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Partners in Crime, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-18 15:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: In an alternate universe, John Watson and A. J. Raffles commit daring crimes, and Sherlock Holmes solves crimes with his partner and biographer, Bunny Manders. Has the universe made a colossal error?Happy Ides of March!





	1. The Whimsies of Fate

There were moments when Holmes felt obliged to contemplate the whimsies of fate. Not that he was a believer in destiny, but it had always been his attitudethat a man could forge his own path in life through the choices he made. In his career as a consulting detective, he had frequently seen this played out: impetuous choices leading to ruin, caution putting the brakes on runaway desire. _We reap what we sow._

Nevertheless, it was clear that there was an unseen hand guiding and limiting those choices: probability. He thought about all the people he’d met in his life, and the different roles they had played. And he sometimes wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t met them.

He’d been smoking his pipe, feeling philosophical after the conclusion of his latest case. Bunny was at his desk, busily writing up the events of the past forty-eight hours. The scratching of his pen on the paper was a familiar, comforting sound. _My dependable Rabbit, always working on something_.

“Do you not think it tragic?” Holmes asked.

The scratching halted. Bunny raised his blond head and looked across at him, his expression somewhere between puzzlement and concern. “Tragic?” he said. “Are you not satisfied with the way things worked out?”

“I am perfectly satisfied, my dear,” he replied. “Have no fear. I will not be needing anything stronger than tobacco, and a bit of brandy perhaps, to fortify me this evening.”

Bunny’s face relaxed into a tentative smile. “What is tragic, then?”

“Mr Edwards’ lovely wife.” Holmes puffed, enjoying Bunny’s confusion. “Do you not think so?”

“Holmes,” Bunny began. “I’m afraid that I… I find it hard to feel sympathy for her. What I mean is, she is in some degree responsible for Jessup’s death, but she will serve no time, thanks to her husband’s confession. The tragedy is that a good man died because of the ambition of another.”

“Whose ambition? Edwards?” Holmes gave a short laugh. “Or his wife?”

“He killed the man, Holmes.”

“Do you not believe his wife goaded him to do it? Did she not play Lady Macbeth to his ambition?”

“We could not prove it,” Bunny replied. “But yes, I suppose she influenced him. She did not, however, take away his choice to do otherwise.”

“Perhaps, had he not met her, he would not have made the choice he did.”

Bunny chewed his lip. “She did not shoot Jessup. We are each responsible for our actions. Thoughts alone do not precipitate an evil deed.”

Holmes puffed silently for a long time. Bunny’s scratchings resumed. It was a companionable silence, but something hung in the air.

“Do you ever wonder, my Rabbit, what would have happened had we not met?”

“We did meet, Holmes,” Bunny returned, smiling up from his paper. “I suppose I would be dead if we hadn’t. Had you not paid off my debts, I would surely have been ruined.”

“You were quite desperate that night,” Holmes agreed. “I’m glad you did not kill yourself, love. But we had already known one another for years at that point. What if we hadn’t met at school, if you hadn’t been my fag for four years?”

Bunny was silent for a moment. “I cannot imagine my life without you,” he said at last. “You are both brilliant and a good deal better than most men. If I am forced to guess, I suppose that I, being rather dull and lacking in courage, would have latched onto someone worse. I shudder to think what kind of man I might have become.”

“You are too hard on yourself, my boy,” Holmes replied. “But I was actually thinking of what my life might have been without you.”

“The work you do is what you have always been meant for,” replied Bunny. “I cannot think that my influence has had much to do with your success. That is all your own doing. Even in school, you showed such promise. How our teachers all jostled one another, preparing to take credit for whatever greatness you would achieve!”

He smiled at the praise. “I am afraid some of those same teachers are disappointed that I have put my talents into criminology. They always expected me to be a ground-breaking chemist or mathematician.”

“You help people, Holmes. You’re a beacon of hope for those whom the law cannot help.”

“This is what I mean, Bunny!” Holmes exclaimed, getting up from his seat and knocking his pipe into the grate. He took fresh tobacco and began to stuff the bowl of his pipe once more. “I do it for the fun of it, while you have made me into a humanitarian — a hero! That look you give me when I start getting short with people — it makes me sorry to be such a tyrant. And I am a tyrant, Bunny — more than anyone else, you know that I am.”

“Well, perhaps we were destined to meet— both times.” Bunny chewed his lip. “At any rate, I feel rather grateful that we did.”

After another long silence, Bunny went back to his writing.

Holmes drew on his pipe, letting the smoke out through his nose. He could deny none of his partner’s virtues. Bunny was devoted, loyal, and humble. Occasionally brave. He would do anything Holmes asked of him, would not balk at any task, be it demeaning, dangerous, or out of his depth. Such loyalty was unusual.

Sometimes, though, he wished Bunny had more of a backbone. Holmes felt petty even thinking of it, but occasionally his loyal companion was a bit… obsequious. On the occasions when Bunny had misjudged or made an error, it was difficult to get him to stop apologising. He was a sapling, easily bent by any wind, but not broken. Had Holmes opted to become a criminal rather than one who chases criminals, he had no doubt that Bunny would be right at his heels, all that admirable loyalty directed to concealing their latest heist and playing his assigned role.

He thought about good and evil. A bit arbitrary, as morality tended to be. Bunny called him a good man, and perhaps he was. But that was not what he had set out to be. He followed his talents into solving crimes, which, as it happened, put him on the side of the angels. He knew in his heart, though, that he was not one of them.

_We are all amoral, our actions falling on whatever side the situation demands, our intelligence rationalising whatever those actions may be._

It might make an interesting experiment, he thought, testing the limits of Bunny Manders’ morality.

 

In another flat, in a different part of town, a second domestic scene was playing out.

“You’re an idiot,” Watson said. “We talked about this, A.J., and you agreed. But now—”

“I saw an opportunity,” Raffles said. “And I took it.”

“You saw an unnecessary risk,” replied his partner. “And you couldn’t resist it.”

Raffles gave him a roguish smile. “Johnny. It was a lark, but it’s all part of the same enterprise.”

Watson sank into his chair, scowling at the rogue. “Let me remind you that we’re in this together, A.J. Not simply to benefit one another, but because neither of us can afford to go to prison, which is a definite possibility for people who steal things— like us. That means we discuss _opportunities_ before you start putting your sticky fingers on other people’s jewellery.”

“It was just a bauble,” Raffles said. “I didn't plan to take it, but Fortune dropped it into my lap. It was in my pocket before I thought of why it might not be a good idea. And then I could hardly put it back, could I? Not without drawing attention. Lady Harrington didn't even notice it was gone. And she’s a hag. And it's her own fault the clasp was so loose—”

“So, the forces of the universe conspired to make a thief of you? That's your story?”

“I've already fenced it,” he replied. “Too late to make amends. Anyway, the money all goes in the same pot. The universe will thank us.”

Watson held his head in his hands. “Dear God. This is my life,” he muttered, his voice incredulous. “How did it come to this?” He had never aspired to grand larceny, but here he was, trying to convince himself that he was an honourable man.

Raffles got to his feet and began to pace. His lean figure came just within an arm’s length of Watson’s chair before he turned and went the other direction. Back and forth he paced. One circuit, two circuits… Watson made no move.

“Listen, Johnny,” Raffles said after several laps around the sitting room. “What we do, it's all the same thing as these Deep Pockets, these Old Money fellows do. We use our talents to earn a bit, but unlike those greedy toffs, we help out the economy by redistributing the wealth. How many men are there who could walk out of a party with another guest’s diamond necklace in his pocket? And how many of them would give most of the proceeds to charity?”

“None, I grant you,” said Watson. “I don't object to the illegal aspects of it; I object to unnecessary risks. I'm a doctor, and I have a reputation to maintain.”

Raffles snorted. “Why did I buy you that posh medical practice, if not to create better opportunities for my peculiar skills? For _our_ skills, I should say. You’re a top-notch burglar, John. And you have to admit that you love it. When I think of that horrid bedsit where I found you, punting your pension away, flirting with your revolver— well, as a friend, I could never let you go back to that. If you think of it that way, I saved your life.”

Watson made a grab for him as he paced nearer, but the lanky man danced away with maddening agility.

“It was your idea, at any rate,” Raffles continued. “You put the idea in my noggin, Johnny, and now I can't go back to cracking merely for the sake of paying my debts.”

“ _Our_ debts, you mean,” said Watson, grabbing his arm and pulling him into his lap. “ _Our_ idea.”

Raffles grinned. “Just the two of us.”

“Against the world,” finished Watson. “Kiss me.”

 

“A string of house burglaries,” said Holmes.“No apparent connection.”

“Houses are burgled every day,” noted Bunny. “Why should there be a connection?”

“Means,” said Holmes, ignoring him. “Same method of entry in each case—”

“How many different ways are there to break into a house? Pick the lock—”

Sherlock sighed. “A house has many points of entry. There might be an accomplice to let them in. Or they might break a window, prop a door, etc.” Clearly he had still not properly educated his Rabbit on the basics of criminology. “Motive. Obvious.”

“Money, I should think.”

“Adrenaline.”

Bunny blinked. “Beg pardon?”

“He— they do it for the thrill. Amateurs. Very clever, but amateurs none the less. If it were merely for gain, they would take it all. They always leave half of what they find. At least half. Why break into two houses, taking half from each, when you can break into one and take all? An ordinary burglar weighs risk versus gain. For them, it's more about the risk than any gains they make, Bunny. They love the danger.”

“They? It's more than one person?” An adorable crease had appeared between Bunny’s eyebrows. “You think it's a gang?”

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. “Pay attention, Bunny. I'm considering Opportunity now. That's what's confounding me. There is no obvious pattern, but there has to be some reason these houses have been selected. I just can't see it.”

“Burglars can’t be random?”

“Criminals exploit opportunities. They tend to look for the types of weaknesses they can exploit again and again. Muggers, for example, often select a certain type of victim, certain locations for their attacks. They strike after dark, or in a vacant alley, when the chances of discovery are small. They have a _modus operandi_ , and they stick to it. Our burglaries, however, happen at different hours, day and night. The victims, other than being fairly well off, have little in common. The robberies occur on any day of the week. The locations— well, they do occur within a range which I have plotted on the map, but it tells me nothing. If I could find another factor, I might narrow it down.”

Bunny smiled at the map with its pins. “It looks very neat,” he said.

“But no pattern,” Holmes pointed out. “Where and when can we expect the next to occur? I ought to be able to predict it by now.”

“Here?” Bunny pointed to an empty spot. “It's almost a pattern. Looks like a hat. Or a sailing ship.”

Sherlock ignored him. “We need to interview people. The families and their servants.” He began putting on his greatcoat.

“I'll take notes,” said Bunny, gathering his notebook and pen.


	2. Under His Nose

The first house, the home of Mr and Mrs Henry, was a modest two-storey brick structure. The thief had taken a watch, several rings, and a string of pearls out of a chest of drawers in the master bedroom. The burglary had occurred during the day, when the family was at church.

“Some nerve,” Mr Henry complained. “Robbing people whilst they’re at church. It’s sacrilegious, I say. Godless hooligans, running wild in the light of day, desecrating the Sabbath. Two months— and what have the police done about these hoodlums? Nothing!”

“No cash was taken?”

“None.”

At the owner’s invitation, Holmes walked through the house, noting the layout and accessibility of the various rooms. Bunny followed, jotting down measurements and other features that seemed important.

“Had you any visitors before the break-in?”

“We get deliveries some days, but they never come inside the house. My wife's mother had been with us for some weeks because of the new baby.”

Indeed, they could hear the child wailing in the nursery. Wincing, Holmes retreated down the stairs. “Let’s look at the library, where the safe is kept.”

The library was on the first floor, its window facing a hedge that went around the house. “Is this where they entered?”

Mr Henry nodded. “The window was unlatched, though I don't remember doing it. No one comes in here besides myself. And the maid, of course, who makes the fire each morning, and dusts a couple times a week. It was warm that day, though, and she hadn't been in. The police interviewed her. Poor girl, she was very upset by the robbery. Clearly it’s not her fault.”

He had read the police report. The girl had checked out.

“What was taken from the safe?”

“It was open, but nothing was missing.”

Holmes looked through the safe’s contents. As expected, there were insurance policies, some bonds, a deed for the house, and a will. “Had you any jewellery in the safe at that time?”

“None. We don’t have much of value in that regard, and what we have, we wear. Fortunately, my wife was wearing her diamond earrings, which have the greatest value. And we recovered my father’s watch from a pawnbroker. Had to pay more than it was truly worth, but at least it wasn’t lost.”

“No other visitors to the house that week?”

“None.”

 

“We need a name,” Bunny said as they looked for a cab.

Holmes frowned, his train of thought broken. “What?”

“A string of related burglaries needs a catchy name. The Case of the Impious Intruders, perhaps.”

“They’re not all Sundays.”

“True. That’s what I’m stuck on. They don’t have a common theme. Hard to make a title out of so many variables. The Case of the Cagey Crackers. The Adventure of the Bold Bandits. The Puzzle of the Petty Pilferers.”

A cab stopped and they climbed in. Holmes gave the driver an address.

“I suppose a title doesn’t require alliteration,” he suggested. “Though English possesses a variety of words for _theft_ , it’s a bit limiting to insist on the repetition of initial consonants.”

Bunny nodded. “True. But at this point people rather expect it of me. It’s my literary signature.”

“A common theme is what we seek,” Holmes replied, smiling a bit. “Let me know what you come up with."

 

The second house was a bit finer than the first. The owner, Mr Dodson, had reported a diamond necklace and a tiara missing from the safe.

“I don't understand,” Dodson said. “The salesman told us this model was uncrackable. I bought it specifically because I'd heard about the other robberies and felt there were some items I ought to protect. And yet, the thief left a number of negotiable securities which could have brought him more than the items he took. Either he is a fool, or—”

“He only takes jewellery,” Bunny observed.

“Had you had any visitors?” Holmes asked.

“None. The children had the influenza, so naturally we were keeping the house quarantined. The maid, the cook, the nurse are all well-known to my family.Completely trusted.” He shook his head. “God, to think that we were all asleep in our beds when he broke in. I believe that was the first quiet night we’d had since the children fell ill.”

“Any deliveries? From the chemist, perhaps?”

“No deliveries. I fetched the medicine myself.”

Holmes nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’ll catch this fellow, won’t you?” Mrs Dodson asked. “It makes me very nervous to think of it. And several more have occurred since we were robbed. I’m sure I’ve barely slept a wink since it happened.”

“Fear not,” Bunny said. “Mr Holmes is on the case. We’ll catch this Brazen Burglar.”

 

By the time they reached the fourth home, Holmes was beginning to feel like he was coming down with something.

“It's the season,” said Bunny. “Both allergies and influenza in the air.”

Holmes sneezed. As he did, he wondered what he was missing. It felt as if the solution was right under his nose.

 

Watson, always the cautious one, planned their next endeavour. “I think we can risk the Morelands,” he said. “I was there over a week ago, long enough to distance myself. There are some dinner rings that ought to interest you, and a rather nice string of pearls.”

“A better harvest awaits us,” Raffles said. “I’ve been invited to Lord Ashby’s do. And I may bring a guest. Are you my man?”

He was not truly interested, but hated it when Raffles went to social events without him. One could never predict the aftermath of letting AJ loose on an assemblage of wealthy people wearing far too much jewellery. “Certainly,” he said. “I will be your guest.”

And so it was that they found themselves in a cab, wearing evening attire, headed for the home of Frederick Ashby and his charming wife, Elaine.

Raffles rubbed his hands together as if they itched. “He has a couple of diamonds the size of my little fingernail, purplish-blue in hue, which he wears as cuff links. I dare say they are a couple of carats each.”

“I hope you’re not thinking you’ll take them out of his cuffs,” Watson said. “I’m not bailing you out tonight, my dear boy.”

Raffles smiled dreamily. “My darling, do not worry. I have standards, you know. There is something ungentlemanly about taking jewels from a man who has opened his home to me. I cannot stomach a fellow who does not respect hospitality. Rather, the pickings lie among his friends and acquaintances. They are sheep, I am quite sure, and I do not mind fleecing them.”

They arrived, were announced, and began their circuit of the guests. Raffles introduced Watson as his _colleague and friend_ , which left the door open for all manner of free interpretations.

After some twenty minutes of meeting the assemblage, they found themselves facing a curious duo, one Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, accompanied by his companion and biographer, Harold “Bunny” Manders.

For a moment, the four of them stood staring at one another, Holmes with his knowing smile and sharp grey eyes, Manders with a blank _deer-in-the-headlights_ look. Raffles, socially savvy, managed to strike the appropriate note, somewhere between _Pleased to meet you_ and _I don’t give an actual fuck who you are._

“Delighted,” murmured Watson, his eyes traveling over the detective and his partner. His gaze came to rest on Manders. “I’ve read all your stories in the Strand. Most entertaining.”

Manders let out a treble squawk, as if he’d been sat upon. “Just piffle. Balderdash. Hardly worth notice.”

“Not at all,” offered Raffles smoothly. “Watson has often commented on your work. Such a talent.”

Bunny attempted to say something. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

“And you, sir,” said Watson, turning his eye on Holmes. “Himself. The great detective. I’m not sure how to address such a panjandrum.”

Holmes smiled and narrowed his eyes. “Doctor Watson. Glad to _finally_ make your acquaintance. I had not expected to see you at such a tedious affair.”

“H-holmes,” his Bunny stammered. “Be civil. We are guests of his Lordship.”

“No insult intended to our hosts,” said Holmes smoothly. “I generally have neither the time nor the patience to attend events such as these. Not knowing whom to expect, I prepare myself to be surprised at whomever I find in attendance. Alas, my poor manners do not adequately convey my pleasure at meeting you and your companion, Doctor.”

Raffles was looking a bit bored. He frowned at Watson.

“No offence taken,” replied the doctor. “Having read of your exploits, Raffles and I are charmed to finally meet you.”

 

“You may as well have kissed him,” Raffles commented on the cab ride home. “You were practically salivating over _Himself_. And I could have brought some baubles home, in spite of the presence of the great detective. You know I could have nabbed a few out from under his nose. Such a wasted evening, my dear.”

“Not wasted,” said Watson. “I was interested to meet him, to size him up. If anyone gets our wind up, it will be Holmes. His little Bunny is harmless, but the man himself deserves his reputation.”

“I was not impressed,” Raffles said.

Watson smiled and leaned into his companion. “Come, my love. Let me impress you.”

“I’ll impress _you_ , my dear doctor.” Raffles grinned and pulled his partner closer. “I’ll impress the _devil_ out of you.”

 

“How do you know Dr Watson?” Bunny inquired.

Holmes had been in a brown study since the previous evening, scarcely speaking, eating nothing, and smoking one cigarette after another. His only responses to Bunny had been monosyllabic grunts.

“Hmm?” He finally said. “What did you say, old chap?”

“I just wondered about Doctor Watson. You said you'd been looking forward to meeting him.”

Holmes’ eyes gleamed. “Indeed. Watson is an interesting fellow. Served in Afghanistan, was wounded, and returned to London, where he has become physician to many of the social elite. And his companion, the charming Mr Raffles, is a cricketer of some note, which gains them introductions to some very posh company. They were roommates at school, as I have heard. Watson purchased the practice that used to belong to Arnold Bradley. It would have cost him quite a bit, especially as he is only a half-pensioner.”

“Hm,” said Bunny. “How interesting.”He did not sound terribly interested. “How is your cold? You're not sneezing any longer.”

“It was not a cold. It was just that something was right under my nose, irritating me. Now that I have found it out, we may conclude our burglary case.” He grinned smugly.

“What? The house break-ins?”

“Indeed. A curious thing, Bunny. Our Doctor Watson is the personal physician to every one of the families whose homes were robbed. Does that not interest you, Bunny?”

“Watson is the burglar? But he’s a doctor!”

“He and Raffles are in it together, I should think. His profession not only raises him above suspicion in most people's eyes, but also renders him virtually invisible. When people are asked about visitors and guests, they do not think of the man who was there delivering the new baby or tending to the children's sniffles. He has means, motive, and opportunity.”

“But surely, as a physician, he does not need to resort to burglary. He has a good income.”

“He doesn't need to, but he enjoys it. Adrenaline, my dear Rabbit. He craves it. Did you not observe it when we met the other night?”

Bunny wilted a bit. “I confess I was not thinking of crime at that moment.”

“Mr Raffles seemed eager to be on his way, but Watson prolonged the conversation deliberately. It was then that it occurred to me that every home in our burglary investigation had a recent invalid. I had only to inquire what physician had tended to the sick in each case, and it was solved.”

Bunny gaped at him. “That’s brilliant! How did you ever think of it? I remember you specifically asking each victim whether they’d had any visitors, and they said no!”

Holmes waved his hand modestly. “When one asks about visitors, people are generally thinking of friends and family. They don’t think of the doctor as a visitor, not as such. No more would they call the milk man or the postman a visitor. It’s a perfect cover, really. The doctor scopes out the house, its layout and contents, and they return later to take what they’ve selected.”

“But why do they leave cash? And only take half of what they find?”

“As I said, they do it for the thrill. They are obviously not getting rich off their second career. Nor are they impoverishing any of Watson’s patients.”

Bunny smiled. “Will we set a trap, then? I do so love dressing up like a burglar.”

Holmes nodded. “I’ve predicted their next target and arranged with the homeowner, Mr Gerald Moreland, to stake out the library, where the safe is kept.”

“What fun!” Bunny clapped his hands. “I’ll wear my mask and my felt hat, the dark one.”

Holmes smiled at his excitement. “And leave the striped shirt home this time, love,” he said. “Real burglars are not so obvious, you know.”


	3. A Moral Thief

Watson hung up his greatcoat and set his Gladstone bag by the door. “The Morelands tonight, then?”

Raffles had that look on his face, he noted, the one he generally had right after he’d come up with a really risky plan. “I thought we might try for a different target.”

“Oh?” Watson poured an inch of scotch into a glass and settled into his chair. “Who did you have in mind?”

“It’s a surprise,” the cracksman said, the risky look intensifying into a smug smile. “I’m not telling.”

“AJ, what makes you think that I am willing to participate in another of your last-minute, highly questionable schemes? We have a protocol for these things. We’ve eluded the police this long only because we’ve been careful.”

Raffles shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go by myself, then. Have a pleasant evening, Doctor.” He slipped into his coat and began loading the implements of his trade into his bag.

“No.” Watson emptied his glass. “We’re partners. Both of us or we don’t go at all.”

“Ah, then you’ll come?”

“No, you’ll stay.” Rising from his chair, he came and stood before his partner.

Raffles rolled his eyes and crossed his arms defiantly. “When did you become so boring, love? This one will be perfect. Not a big haul, but the biggest buzz yet.”

“I’m not boring, I’m cautious,” Watson said stubbornly. “One of us has to be.”

“Boring.” Raffles put his arms around his doctor. “You’ve lost your sense of romance and adventure. Soon we’ll find ourselves sitting home every evening, drinking warm milk and watching the embers die. Maybe we could learn to knit. Boring!”

“I’m not boring,” Watson repeated, looking a bit hurt. “I love adventure.”

“You used to be a soldier,” Raffles countered. “You’re turning into an old woman.”

“Old woman!” Watson was definitely offended now. “Do you want to see what this old woman is capable of?”

Raffles growled. “I know, my dear.” He leaned in, capturing Watson’s mouth in a kiss. “God, how I know. So, shall we stay home and play tiddly-winks?”

Watson sighed. “I’ll get my coat.”

 

“They’ve gone away for the night,” Holmes said as they let themselves into the Morelands’ townhouse. “I told them to make sure it was known that they would be out.”

“Beautiful,” said Bunny, admiring the elegant sitting room.

“The safe is in the library. We’ll have to keep it dark.”

Bunny nodded. “Excellent plan. Are there no servants home tonight?”

“No servants.”

They settled into the closet in the library and listened. And waited.

A clock on the mantle ticked out the minutes.

 

“Baker Street?” Watson frowned at the sign. “Who lives here?”

Raffles didn’t answer him; instead he steered his partner into the alley behind the block. They walked silently until they were behind Number 221B. Raffles knelt and took out his lock pick. Watson knew his role and kept an eye towards either end of the alley. In a few minutes, the door opened and they slipped inside.

“Upstairs,” Raffles whispered. “Housekeeper lives on the ground floor.”

When they reached the upper landing, they heard a door open below.

“Mr Holmes?” a voice called. “You’re back soon!”

Watson’s eyes opened wide. The look he gave Raffles was exasperated.

Raffles cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said in a deep, posh voice.

“Will you be wanting a late supper, then?”

“Erm, no. Thank you.”

“Very well.” The door closed.

Watson let out the breath he’d been holding. “We’re burgling Sherlock Holmes?” he whispered fiercely.

Raffles made a shushing motion and busied himself with picking the lock.

Once they were inside the flat, the door closed behind them, Watson grabbed him by the arms. “Are you mad?”

“Not mad,” replied his partner. “Just vengeful.”

“Why?”

“I’m blaming Holmes for our wasted evening.”

“But he’ll know it was us!” Watson protested.

“Of course. And he won’t be able to do anything about it. At this moment, he’s waiting for us at the Morelands. Do you think he’ll admit to being robbed by the very burglars he was staking out?” He shook off Watson, began casing the flat. “I don’t expect he’ll have any jewels, but perhaps we can take something that he will miss.”

“Maybe we should just leave him a note saying _Sorry we missed you,_ ” Watson said.

Raffles snorted. “Who’s mad now?”

“That was sarcasm,” Watson hissed. “Let’s get out of here.”

The cracksman was holding a violin. “This might be worth something.”

“Give me that,” said the doctor. “It’s a Stradivarius. Probably worth more than this entire block. We’re not taking it.”

Raffles shrugged. “As you wish.” He picked up a briar pipe, set it down. “Who’s this?” he said, taking a framed photo into his hands. “Ah, the lovely Miss Adler. I’m pretty sure he won’t miss that. Nice frame. Sterling, I think.” He placed it inside his bag.

Watson sighed. “AJ, we need to go.”

“Look, Johnny! He’s got a little shrine to criminals— here’s John Clay, and Milverton, the blackmailer. Rucastle, Windibank, Roylott. And there are some artefacts here as well.” He picked up a letter knife with an ivory handle and held it up. “ _Is this a dagger I see before me?_ Ha! Murder, robbery, blackmail, embezzlement. But not one cracksman represented, unless you count Clay.” He grinned. “I swear, Johnny, by the time we’re done with him, he’ll have a shrine to us!”

Raffles pocketed a gold snuff box with a large amethyst, a silver cigarette case, a diamond ring, and a pair of cuff links from Holmes’ room. “The ring will fetch a good sum, and the snuff box,” he said. “Obviously gifts from clients. The case and the cuff links tell us he’s not a man who ordinarily cares about having fine things.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Just deducing the great deducer,” Raffles said, smiling. “And picking up a few souvenirs. What's in the Rabbit’s room? Anything worth taking?”

”Pocket watch, silver,” said Watson. “ _Engraved: To My Beloved Bunny_.”

“From Himself?”

“Can't tell. But why would he advertise their relationship?”

“Take it.”

“We're not blackmailing him,” Watson said.

Raffles rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mummy.” He picked up a manuscript from the desk. Reading, he chuckled. “Apparently, Himself uses cocaine. His Boswell notes it here.”

Watson nodded. “Yes, I saw the bottle and syringe.”

“Well, let's take that as well.”

“Absolutely not. You don't need any more stimulation, you madman.”

“True. My brain always hums along energetically enough on tobacco.”

“Can we go now?”

Raffles gave a look around the flat and a sharp nod. “Right. If I'm not mistaken, they'll be back soon.”

As they slipped out the backdoor, they heard the front door open.

They heard Bunny’s voice first. “Do you really think they knew?”

“Obviously,” Holmes growled. He did not sound happy.

Watson held his breath; the backdoor closed gently behind them just as the front door slammed shut behind Holmes and Manders.

Raffles chuckled. “As always, my timing is impeccable.”

Watson snorted. “As always, your bollocks are bigger than your brain. You timed it so we would just miss getting caught.”

Raffles grinned. “What would you do without my bollocks?”

“The question you should be asking is, what can I do _with_ your bollocks?” Watson replied, returning the grin.

“Hm,” said his partner. “Shall we find out?”

“Home,” said Watson.

“Not yet,” Raffles replied. “First, we need to stop at Morelands.”

The doctor sighed deeply. “Clearly, you’re trying to kill me.”

“I’ll bring you back to life later.” Raffles grinned. “A perfect evening, my dear. Larceny and love.”

 

“Don’t be glum, Holmes.” Bunny quietly set a cup of tea next to his partner. “You’re blaming yourself.”

“Whom should I blame?” Holmes shot him an incomprehensible look.

“Well, _them_. Raffles and Watson. They’re the criminals.”

“Yes, and it’s my job to discern criminal minds. That is my claim to fame, you know. I underestimated them, Bunny. I failed.”

Bunny gave a little snort. “They didn’t win. They cheated.”

Holmes laughed. “My problem, I suppose, is that up until now all our criminals have been men of honour. Ethical thieves, principled murderers. Criminals who follow the script.” He thought of Bunny and his burglar costume. “No, my Rabbit. I’m afraid it’s my fault. I did not understand what we were dealing with. Even now, I’m not sure I do.”

“You needn’t worry,” Bunny said. “I won’t be writing this one up— not yet, at any rate. Perhaps tonight is only the first chapter. In the end, I have no doubt that you will clap the darbies on these Clever Cracksmen… these Daring… Defalcators.” He began to write something down in his notebook. “Reckless Wrongdoers. Hm. The consonance is there, but it doesn’t look well… Temerious Transgressors…”

Holmes was silent for a long time, listening to the scratching of the pen. “Bunny,” he said at last. “What if I asked you to help me beat them at their own game?”

“Are we going to break into their flat and rob them?” he frowned. “Though I do not doubt your ability to do that, I'm not sure my own burgling abilities are up to snuff.”

“You’re too modest,” Holmes returned. “What if I were to ask you, my Rabbit, to affiliate yourself with a brilliant criminal, become his colleague, to play Watson to his Raffles?”

“You want me to take up with Raffles?” Bunny laughed. “You’re jesting now, I know. For all his cleverness, Raffles cannot hold a candle to you. I could never be with a rotter like that. You’re a good man and, in truth, it’s your brilliance that makes you moral. This is why I love you.”

Holmes smiled. “What if I were to become a criminal myself? Would you stick with me?”

Bunny scoffed. “Holmes, you are not serious. Never would you lower yourself so. You always say that the average criminal is a half-wit.”

“Indeed. There are, however, a few who stand out from the common imbeciles. Were I to go into crime, you must acknowledge that I would be brilliant. Would you love me if I decided to use my talents for evil instead of good? Or do you love me only because I am, as you judge, a moral man?”

Bunny appeared to give this all his attention. He frowned, closed his eyes, and chewed the end of his pen a bit. He opened his eyes at last. “I am not a great man myself, Holmes, possibly not even a man of firm principles, as you are. I have not the philosophical mindset. But I am sure I would be dead if you were not a good man, if you hadn’t taken me in and helped me find my feet. I hate to think of what I might have done if you hadn’t done that. My loyalty to you is infinite. If you asked me to commit a crime, I would trust your judgment that it was necessary, that it served some moral purpose.”

“You would remain loyal, even if you did not understand what that purpose was?”

Bunny nodded. “I am your man, Holmes. I trust you completely.”

Holmes smiled, not because he hadn’t expected such loyalty from his Rabbit, but because his response had confirmed his hunch.

“Where are you going?” Bunny asked as Holmes pulled on his coat.

“I need to see a doctor.” He wrapped his scarf around his neck. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

 

“Mr Holmes.” John Watson stood up from his desk, smiling at him. Sherlock wondered if anything had ever surprised this man. Probably not, considering that he lived with a complete rascal. “What can I do for you?”

“I am not here as a patient, obviously,” he said.

Watson gestured towards the chair. “Please, sit.”

They regarded one another in silence for a minute.

“Doctor Watson,” Holmes finally said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t home to receive you last night.”

Watson’s smile broadened, but he did not laugh. “I’m sure it would have been much more interesting if you had been there.”

“Indeed.” Holmes patted his pockets, seeking a cigarette.

“Allow me,” said Watson. He opened a familiar silver case and held it towards the detective. “Or would you prefer a cigar?”

“This is fine, thank you.” Holmes accepted a cigarette and the proffered match. “Most kind.”

“Not at all,” the doctor replied. “How may I help you, Mr Holmes?”

“I am curious, Doctor Watson. And I’m hoping that you will satisfy my curiosity.”

“I shall endeavour to do so.” He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and trimmed the end with a small knife he took from his pocket, a knife that was quite similar to Holmes’s own pocket knife. It even had a small monogrammed ‘H’ on the side.

“You are an educated person, a man of principle. That must be the case, since you are a doctor. You put your patients’ welfare above your own.”

“That is the oath I took.” He struck a match and lit the cigar.

“In this oath, you also swore to abstain from intentional wrong-doing, did you not? Is that not part of the oath of your profession?”

“It is,” said Watson, puffing. “But _wrong-doing_ is not defined with any specificity. There is medical malpractice, the giving of worthless or harmful remedies, or the withholding of useful treatments. These are clearly against the oath I swore. Other than that, many of the truly harmful things that one might do are not medical, are they? Many of them are completely legal. The Poor Law, for example. One might argue that the treatment of the poor and destitute is a political question, or an economic one, but I believe it is a moral one.”

“That is so.” Holmes nodded, regarding the doctor with curiosity. “But few would argue that burglary is a political or economic question.”

“Quite so,” Watson said. “It is illegal for a reason, whatever the burglar’s motives may be.”

“Can a burglar have moral reasons?”

“I believe so. But this is all empty philosophy. What is it that you really seek to know, Mr Holmes?”

“You are a moral man, I think, Doctor. But I do not believe it is morality that brought you to my flat last night. That is what I wish to understand. You clearly do not have criminal leanings, but possess a strong loyalty towards a man who, without your guidance, would undoubtedly be in gaol. I am curious: why do you allow yourself to be used thus?”

“What do you know of my leanings, Mr Holmes?” the doctor asked, blowing smoke upwards. “And why should it be anyone’s business but my own?”

“I consider it my business because you broke into my home last night. I believe that is sufficient reason for me to wish to satisfy my curiosity.”

Watson sighed. He rose, opened a small cabinet, and took out a cloth bag. “These items belong to you, I believe. How they came into my possession, I cannot say.” He reached into his pocket and handed over the cigarette case and the pocket knife.

“Cannot say?”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality.” He raised an eyebrow. “I apologise for the inconvenience.”

Holmes took the sack. “You are acting in a tragedy, Doctor. Your partner, however, is playing it as a comedy. He will make a fool of you in the end.”

The doctor puffed his cigar. “Mr Holmes, this clearly distresses you. Let me be frank, if I may.”

“Please.”

“When I returned from Afghanistan, I was crippled, unable to use my left arm, unable to walk without a limp. I could no longer practice surgery and was forced to subsist on half pension. I thought my life was over— until Raffles took me in. Had he not, I would not be alive now. I am merely returning the favour, making him useful and keeping him from riskier ventures. Surely you realise that we are not raking in a fortune from our little game.”

“You do it for the thrill,” Holmes replied. “That much was easy to deduce.”

“In part,” the doctor rejoined. “What you may not have deduced is that I am able to spend most of my time doctoring the poor, thanks to the unwitting generosity of my wealthier patients.” He smiled. “All parties benefit. A.J. exercises his talents for a good cause, I am able to do work that is meaningful, my poor patients are healthier than they would be, and my wealthier patients generally recover their jewels from the local pawnbroker, who takes his cut as well. Their neighbours buy insurance policies and stronger safes, which puts more money into the economy and lets everyone rest easier. Our little enterprise is merely a redistribution of wealth, a levelling of the economics of this highly unequal society.”

Holmes sighed. “I appreciate your frankness and will be equally honest with you, Doctor. You are a man of many talents. As a doctor, you would be invaluable at crime scenes. As a soldier, you understand firearms and are not afraid of danger. I hate to see you waste such skills on an illegal gamble. Clearly Mr Raffles does not value you as I would.”

Watson leaned forward, tossing his cigar into the fireplace. “You are offering me a job?”

“I am.”

“But you already have an assistant, Mr Manders. And I am a criminal, as you have deduced.”

Holmes closed his eyes, sighing. “Doctor Watson, I do not believe in God, or Fate, or whatever one chooses to call that force that seems to guide our lives. I believe things happen because other things have already happened. You and Mr Raffles are partners because you went to school together. Mr Manders and I have come together for similar reasons. Most relationships are a result of circumstance. They are not made in heaven or destined by the hand of Fate. You and I are perfect examples of this. Our loyalties are not rational, no matter how we try to rationalise them. And I simply wonder… What if you and I had met sooner, or under different circumstances? It stirs my imagination.”

Watson drew on his cigar and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Mr Holmes, I appreciate your offer. You flatter me by even thinking I could be a worthy assistant to you. Please understand that I am a not an imaginative man. Yes, we might have met at school and become fast friends. We might have become any number of things to one another. These things mean nothing to me. They are hypothetical, things that might have happened, but never did. What happened in reality is what we deal with. We make choices based on flimsy reasoning, stick with our choices because most men do— we defend whatever it is that we possess, and rationalise how we arrived where we are. Will you admit that you do the same?”

“I do,” Holmes readily acknowledged. “But it does not satisfy my curiosity. I wonder what would have happened.”

Watson smiled. “Any number of things could have happened. They did not. Here we are, you with the humiliation of having been outwitted, myself with the spectre of gaol hanging over me. If I may paraphrase, _I am in theft stepped in so far that, should I wade no more, returning were as tedious as go o'er_. I accept the inevitable, Mr Holmes. If it comes to that end.”

Holmes stood. “Thank you. I had expected no other answer. Indeed, that is part of your charm, Doctor. You are a loyal thief, a criminal who has a sense of honour. I only hope that Mr Raffles appreciates you fully. If you ever change your mind, I am ready to consider a partnership.”

Watson rose from his chair. “You are too kind. If I may ask, what will you do now?”

“About you and Mr Raffles?” He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I catch criminals, so it is logical to assume that one day our paths will cross again and I will catch you.”

The doctor shrugged. “Be assured that we will not visit your flat again without invitation.” He smiled a bit sadly. “We don’t choose whom we love, as you say.”

Holmes held out his hand and Watson took it. For a long moment, they stood together, each considering what might have been, what the future might bring.

“Well, goodbye, Doctor.”

Watson nodded. “Until we meet again.”

 

As he opened the door at 221B Baker Street, Holmes noticed a package lying on the table on the landing. “Mrs Hudson?” he called out, shrugging off his coat. “Did you see who brought this?”

Mrs Hudson came out to meet him. “I didn’t. It came while I was out with the shopping.”

He carried it up the stairs, studying the label. _Sherlock Holmes, Esq._

“Hello, Bunny,” he said, setting the package on his chair.

Bunny looked up from his notebook. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine. Why are you frowning?” He set the bag of stolen items on the table.

“You, erm, said you needed to see a doctor. I was worried.”

“No worries, love. Just routine.”

Bunny’s face cleared. “Oh. That’s good. Who’s the package from?”

“No return address. Let’s find out,” he replied, cutting the string with his pocket knife. When the paper was off, they found a picture in a silver frame.

“That’s… Mr Raffles and Doctor Watson. Holmes, why have they sent us a picture of themselves?”

“A memento, I suppose.” He emptied the cloth bag. “Here’s your watch, Bunny.”

Bunny was studying the picture. “Shall we add it to the rogues gallery?”

“No. Perhaps someday, but not yet.”

“Nice frame. Sterling, I think.”

“Indeed,” Holmes said, smiling. ”Ms Adler has good taste.”


End file.
